


bad luck, old friend

by hungry_hobbits



Category: The Hateful Eight (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Scene, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:55:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25619209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungry_hobbits/pseuds/hungry_hobbits
Summary: dying in wyoming would be a little less annoying if some people weren't around
Relationships: Joe Gage | Grouch Douglass/Oswaldo Mobray | Pete Hicox
Kudos: 6





	bad luck, old friend

**Author's Note:**

> prompt fill for henrylevesconte / Wolfermann - another slightly ambiguous fill because i just realized i forgot what i was supposed to include from the prompt in the fic - BUT ITS THERE IN SPIRIT...

Things weren’t going well, but then again there were only two ways a situation like this could go and there was always a chance of things going belly up. Luck just wasn’t in their favor.

Pete was dying, no getting around that – a bullet to the lung would do that to you, of course. He just never expected it to happen the way that it was going to. No, he never thought he’d die old in his bed. He imagined going out with flair, not bleeding to death in a general store in Wyoming. He at least had the satisfaction that there was the potential of Mannix and Marquis bleeding out before he did, then he could have the last laugh if he could muster it. A soft chuckle then lights out, maybe.

Watching his friends die and be maimed, he realized this is what the fine folks of Minnie’s haberdashery must’ve felt when the Domingre’s started their attack; fear, anger, confusion. The Brit was in too much pain to wax poetic about the ironies of the whole situation, he’d leave that for more educated fops. Or maybe Grouch, if the cowpuncher miraculously lived through this and thought to dedicate a page in his memoirs to this whole traumatic and dramatic affair.

The slamming of the cellar door jolted Pete out of his blurry edged thoughts. He looked at Daisy sadly, knowing there was very little he could do to comfort her after what she’d been through and seen. He owed a lot to the Domingre’s, so dying for them wasn’t a stretch. But it hurt.

“May I sit in a chair?” Grouch sounded exhausted, he had every right to be, but he kept his temper in check. He didn’t want to set off either of those bloody bastards.

“Yes you may.” Marquis generously agreed to Grouch’s request, his and Mannix’s firearms trained on him as he made his way to the table nearby.

And there Grouch paused for a few moments, more time than they gave Jody to come out of the cellar.

“Well go on,” Mannix taunted, “sit.” He motioned to the table with his rifle.

Grouch took the chair in his hands and began to cross the room.

“What d’you think you’re doing?” Mannix hated Grouch, not really for any good reason except a false admittance to attempted poisoning, but Grouch really didn’t care about Mannix’s personal opinion so much so as he cared about the rifle in his hand.

“I’m sittin’.” Grouch didn’t look up, had to step around John Ruth to get over to the fireplace where Pete was. He smiled softly at Pete and pushed the hair from his eyes before sitting down, “You said I could.”

“I meant at the table.”

“Oh leave it be. What do we give a shit where they sit? They’re gonna die.” Marquis pointed his gun between Pete, Grouch, and Daisy with a sweaty, and bloody smirk plastered on his face. It hurt him to laugh. That was fine with the remaining gang members.

Pete looked up at Grouch, blood in his teeth diminishing the charm of his English smile.

“I don’t know if we can charm our way out of this one, Joe.” Pete spoke softly and pressed a hand over the hole in his chest, not that it would do anything to mitigate the damage already done.

“Yeah seems like this is gonna be the end of the road for us, ‘less we get lucky.” Grouch took the hand that dangled limply off the arm of the chair into his own and gave it a squeeze, “But we had a good run?”

“A great one, really.”

Grouch looked to Daisy and thought about making a move to her. It wasn’t right that she die sitting there chained to the jackass that brought her out to bum-fucking Wyoming. It wasn’t right that Jody was in the cellar giving the rats a good supper.

Daisy wiped what bits of Jody and John Ruth she could from her face and hair, but there wouldn’t be any way for those stains to come out for a long time. She’d be the only one who could see them, was the thing. She looked to Grouch, tears cutting a hint of a line through the muck and grime of her busted face. She shook her head the slightest bit and Grouch settled back in his chair.

“Don’t even think about it, you ugly son of a bitch.” Mannix wasn’t good for much other than talking shit and pulling triggers what with his busted leg, it seemed, but he was good for it. “I’ll blow your ass six ways to Sunday.”

_Maybe we could make it the next two days_ , Pete rested his head towards Grouch’s, just looking up at him. He had faced a worse blizzard when he was in Switzerland – Wyoming was nothing compared to that. The snow could let up sooner. They could be rescued before the next afternoon. Probably not, but it was a nice thought.

Daisy started in on a speech against their captors, letting them know what for and how badly they fucked up (very badly, if you were wondering). Pete was only half paying attention, what with dying and all, but he was glad to see someone was giving them a much deserved earful. Grouch rubbed the back of the Brit’s hand with his thumb, a very needed and soothing gesture he never much appreciated until now. Amazing what you care about when you’re knocking on death’s door.

“We should’ve stayed in Mexico,” Pete grumbled.

“Yeah.” Grouch nodded, “Yeah.”

It was going to be a long night.

**Author's Note:**

> hungry-hobbits.tumblr.com


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